


hanging tree

by yeeharley



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Injury, Character Death, Everyone Needs A Hug, Flashbacks, Harley Keener-centric, Hunger Games-Typical Death/Violence, Inspired by The Hunger Games, M/M, Major Character Injury, Minor Character Death, Multi, NOT STARKER - Freeform, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Parent Tony Stark, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker-centric, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Harley Keener, Protective Peter Parker, Protective Tony Stark, Psychological Trauma, Sad with a Happy Ending, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Tony Stark-centric, Violence, Whump, dear god i hate having to tag that
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:13:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26429179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeeharley/pseuds/yeeharley
Summary: Harley Keener, burdened with protecting his little sister and mother in a world that seems to want him dead, knows that being reaped for the Hunger Games is a death sentence. If he wants to survive, he's going to have to kill- and in the end, he doesn't know if he's capable of murder.Peter Parker, victor of the 74th Hunger Games and certifiably not right in the head (according to the Capitol), takes his second reaping in stride and immediately vows to get the scared boy with curly golden hair out of the arena, even if it means abandoning all hope for himself.Tony Stark is going to get everyone worth saving out of the Games- he's promised his daughter, and now there's no going back. He just doesn't know who qualifies as 'worth saving'.(A parkner+irondad hunger games au)
Relationships: Abby Keener - Relationship, Harley Keener & Harley Keener's Sister, Harley Keener & Tony Stark, Morgan Stark (Marvel Cinematic Universe) & Tony Stark, Peter Parker & Tony Stark, Peter Parker/Harley Keener, Tony Stark/Pepper Potts
Comments: 56
Kudos: 105





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, everyone! Welcome to my latest hyperfixation-based project. I hope you all enjoy it, and I'd love to see your opinions. Before we get started, I'd appreciate it if everyone reads through the author's note fully (I know they can be boring) just to make sure we cover some bases.
> 
> 1\. There is going to be character death in this story. Some of it is going to involve some big characters and it's probably going to be sad, although I guess that's to be expected when you're writing a hunger games au. WITH THAT IN MIND I AM NOT KILLING OFF PETER, HARLEY, OR TONY. Don't worry about that.
> 
> 2\. I'll be putting trigger warnings at the beginning of each chapter. They'll be vague to avoid spoilers, but it's definitely important that you check them out and make sure nothing is going to be triggering. Read safe!
> 
> 3\. While this is partially inspired by iron_spider's hunger games au, ever in your favor, I've been careful to avoid taking any of their ideas.
> 
> 4\. There will be violence in this fic. Heed the tags :)
> 
> 5\. I am aware of the fact that Peter's narrative starts off as very choppy and disconnected. This is intentional- he's not entirely with it for the first bit of the story- but it's slowly going to get better and better. 
> 
> Thanks to peachy-keener for screaming with me and helping me come up with some insane ideas for this au! I owe a lot of this to them :) Thank you again!
> 
> My tumblr: silver-bubbles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: mentioned character death, flashback including death, mentioned character injury, mental illness (Peter's section, non-graphic- he's just really not all there yet)

_**"are you, are you, coming to the tree?"** _

_**-** _

A rusting metal swingset.

The sound of waves crashing against algae-covered rocks and tightly-packed sand, slowly drawing particles away until, in a few hundred years, there will be no beach left.

Men and women shouting at each other as their boats pull away from shore and dock alike, rowboats and sailboats and dinghies that have no chance of weathering the coming storm. 

The roll of thunder accompanying deep gray storm clouds blowing in from the east, billowing up over each other as if they're fighting to be the first to reach land and wallop everyone heading out to sea.

A sheet of long, sandy-blond hair, buffeted around in the pre-storm wind. Abby's freckles, her white-toothed smile, her tan skin and clear laugh. It rings off of the cliff, down to the jagged rocks below, up to the slate-colored sky as her legs pump her back and forth on the swing. It creaks with every movement, far past its replacement date, but nobody seems to care enough to fix it. 

Abby's laugh cancels out the squeaking metal and angry shouts, anyways.

_She sounds like a bell,_ Harley thinks absently, gently pushing her back and forth as she pumps a pair of short legs. _A ringing bell, like the ones from the old church._

And she does. Despite everything they've been through and everything yet to come, she is happy and loud and so _unapologetically_ Abby Keener.

Abby is eleven now. In the past year, she's shot up in height, but the rest of her grade in school still towers over her head-and-shoulders. The rest of her hasn't grown much- stick-thin and long-legged, she looks like one of the white egrets that fly their way back and forth across the rivers in District Four. She's young, gangly, too thin to be healthy.

But then again, don't they all?

Harley had started growing at eleven, a bit later than Abby, but when he'd started? He hadn't stopped. It had taken him years to finish and, now that he's finally reached his final height, he stands above nearly everyone else in the district. A strong, capable boy with what's shaping up to be a moderately bright future.

After all, he's nearly eighteen now. The reaping is on the horizon and his birthday is just beyond it, so if he can just dodge this one and make it through, he'll never have to feel the paralyzing fear of knowing how many times your name is in that glass bowl and hoping beyond all hope that somebody else's is pulled.

_Abby starts next year,_ that dark part of his mind hisses. _Even if you're out, she'll still be in. She won't be safe._

He pushes it down. All he can do is move forward and pray that it isn't his sister.

Another gust of wind blows across the cliff. Harley lets go of the swing for a moment, pulling his jacket tighter around his chest and arms, and steps over to the edge. Peers over it, at the crashing waves and white foam below. At the gray water that stretches on for miles under a gray sky in a gray world. 

This is his future, fishing these oceans and these rivers until his boat capsizes and the waves pull him under.

He looks up, blond curls blowing about his face and into his mouth as the storm moves closer and closer. He really does need a haircut at this point; it's been months and if he doesn't want to wear it in a ponytail (he doesn't, he really _really_ doesn't) he has to go ahead and chop it off.

He'll just ask his other when he gets home.

A fat drop of water lands on his nose. Drips down the bridge before falling off, splattering onto the ground at his feet. Another hits his shoulder, the crown of his head, his lip. The wind carries a chill, turns the rain sharp and cold.

This isn't a summer rain, humid and warm. Those are the storms where you can splash in puddles and get your feet wet without catching cold.

No, this is a winter storm, and it's coming fast. 

"We need to get inside," Harley barks, ignoring the pang of guilt at Abby's disappointed frown. "Storm's coming."

"I want to stay," Abby says. Nevertheless, she takes a flying jump off of the swing at its arc and lands on her feet. Mud from the last storm splatters against the toes of her white canvas shoes.

He's going to have to clean those.

Harley takes her hand in his, lacing their fingers together, and tugs her along at a light jog as they make their way down the winding cliffside. Pebbles skitter beneath their feet, but the surrounding trees- _pine_ , he thinks, but he's never been very good with remembering that- take the brunt of the wind.

It's warmer down here. Sheltered. Safe.

The path down to Four's biggest coastal town and, subsequently, the Keener home, is long and cuts straight through the docks where boats are anchored. Despite the coming storm, there are barely any people mooring their boats; everyone is out on the water to try and bring in their quota of fish for the day. Harley has no doubt that, come morning, there will be reports of missing people. Later this week, a boat or two will wash up.

It's a sad reality. He dreads the day when he hasn't made his quota and has to go out on a stormy ocean.

A pair of peacekeepers, armed to the teeth and still as statues, stand by the gate that leads into town. Harley subconsciously pulls Abby into his sides. Keeps his eyes on the path of loose white gravel. Grits his teeth and braces himself as they pass, but the peacekeepers must be ready to go home, because they let them by without a fuss.

Tomorrow is the reaping.

Everyone, peacekeeper or not, just wants to go home and savor their last night before the games- and the Quarter Quell, nonetheless- are set into motion.

The town is quiet. Made up of wooden shanties, crumbling buildings, and empty market stalls, it looks like a ghost town. Now and then, as Harley and Abby pass, a pair of small faces will poke out of dusty windows only to be pulled back in by frantic, trembling hands.

Normalcy has long since been forgone. 

The Keener home is at the edge of town. It's the only house Harley can remember- as far as he knows, he's never lived anywhere else. The windows are cracked, the porch is covered in spiderwebs, and the antenna that serves as their television's connector barely works- it fizzes out when they're watching news programs, but never when the games are on. No, those are an entirely different ballgame.

Harley shoos Abby inside, shucks his muddy shoes off to be cleaned later, and steps inside before closing and locking the door. His coat goes onto its hook, right next to Abby's and his mother's, and his socks go on the firescreen to dry. 

Abby plops herself down on the couch and pulls one of her schoolbooks off of the table before opening it and starting to read. She's smart, hardworking, committed. Everything Harley wasn't at her age.

Macy Keener sits at the kitchen table with a large bolt of fabric strewn across her lap and a needle clenched between her teeth. What looks like a tablecloth is starting to take shape- probably something for one of the town clients. On his way across the kitchen, Harley plants a gentle kiss on her wrinkled forehead before filling a saucepan with water from the tap.

If the redness around her eyes is anything of a hint, she's been crying. Still is, actually, judging from the water pooling at her lower lashline.

"How was your day, mom?" Harley asks. He sets the saucepan on the stove, brings it to a boil, pours in a helping of dry noodles from the cupboard. Their last box.

Macy just shrugs, pulls the needle from between her teeth, and stitches another few inches of the tablecloth before shaking it out and holding it up for them to see. Harley nods- it's a pretty blue color, had probably cost a few month's worth of wages. But that's okay, because it's almost Games season.

They're allowed a few frivolities now and then.

"Looks good," Abby says. The sound of rustling paper fills the room as she flips another page in her book and pulls a sheet of notebook paper out of her backpack, starting on her homework. "It'll look nice with dandelions."

She's right. Yellow and blue are her favorite colors. In the spring, there will be flowers on the table and fresh salad and food that can't be found year-round, and Harley's sure that it'll look beautiful.

The noodles boil slowly but surely; the sound of hissing bubbles joins the rustling. Harley watches the pot carefully, strains out the bubbling water, and slices off a fat pad of butter from their last stick. Abby puts her book down to help him plate their food. Macy stays seated.

She hasn't been the same since their father left. None of them really have, but Macy's change had been by far the most drastic and had come at the worst possible time. After he had disappeared in the night under the guise of getting medicine for Abby, who'd been running a high fever, she had shut down- depression, the doctors had called it. 

Harley didn't care very much what they called it. She had disappeared into herself just like her husband had into darkness, leaving Harley to take care of Abby and fend for himself during a Games season when he'd been eight years old.

Macy had left just like Adam Keener.

It had hurt worse.

"You can't do this right now," Harley says lowly, watching Abby to make sure she doesn't hear. "We need you."

"I'm not trying to."

He rolls his eyes and sets her plate down, gently pulling the unfinished cloth from her lap. "Try not to."

"I _am,_ Harley," Macy says. She sounds so frustrated that he almost feels bad, but _he's_ frustrated, _too._ He's been dealing with this on his own for so long, and he's so _sick_ of being the parent.

"Try harder."

She doesn't respond- just picks up her fork and shovels an inordinate amount of noodles into her mouth, jaw working angrily. Harley rolls his eyes again before pushing his chair out from the table and sitting. Slides Abby's plate over so she can eat, too. Takes a deep, deep breath.

They'll be sending out the announcement later tonight, when they're ready to go to sleep for a last night's peace. The seventy-fifth Hunger Games, the third Quarter Quell, the worst part of the year. The season where your television runs twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, lest you miss something important. Like a violent death.

They don't turn off. People tried not to watch, so the Capitol made it impossible for you to avoid. Even when Harley's trying to sleep, he can hear screams and crying and so much _pain_ emanating from the living room, giving him nightmares and making it impossible for him to get a decent night's rest.

Abby sleeps on the front porch during Games season. It's the only place she can't hear the television. 

Macy doesn't seem like she's affected anymore.

Harley has watched seventeen games now. He remembers nearly all of them, nearly every death, and every single victor. This is his first Quarter Quell, and he can already feel that it's going to be a bad year. He just doesn't know how.

Last year's Games had been some of the worst that he'd ever seen. It had been set up in an arena that was made up of a series of tributaries; they'd reminded him painfully of his own district. That's probably what the Gamemakers had modeled it after. Poisonous snakes, spiders, and twenty-four bloodthirsty teenagers roaming about with murder on their minds.

Miles Morales, Gwendolyn Stacy, Harry Osborn, Quentin Beck, Peter Parker. Those had been the big names, the ones to watch.

Miles, Gwen, and Harry had died early on. Harley had missed Gwen's death, Harry's had been quick and painless (arrow to the abdomen, done-and-done), and Miles' hadn't been aired. All Harley had seen was the body.

Abby had cried for hours over him. He'd been twelve, just two years older than her, and she had wanted nothing more than for him to make it out.

Quentin Beck, District One, and Peter Parker, District Two, had been the last two standing. Harley had covered Abby's eyes and turned away as Parker had gripped Beck by the neck and held him underwater for over ten minutes, until he'd stopped breathing and his body floated downstream to be picked up by a hovercraft.

They'd left the house after that. Macy had told Harley that the boy- that's what she called Parker, who had only been sixteen- had looked like stone, staring up into the cameras with cold eyes and bloodstained hands until they had cut out.

Harley had seen pictures of the staredown later. He can't remember very well, looking back on it, but the darkness in Parker's eyes had been chilling. Unforgettable. Standing there with red streaks on his shirt, cuts up and down his arms from Beck's nails, lips set in a firm line like he'd just been given some moderately bad news, he hadn't looked like a child. 

He had looked like a monster.

But that was kind of how the Career tributes were, Harley figured. He'd never met one, but the victory tours always ran through Four and he had seen them from afar a few times. They always looked powerful, dangerous. Inhuman.

He hoped to God he'd never have to meet one.

Just as he finishes his plate and sets it in the sink to be washed, the television crackles to life. His stomach drops- this is the last thing he wants to do right now- and he can feel the dread growing, dangerous, insidious, unavoidable.

"You don't have to watch," Macy whispers, already on her way over to the couch. "I can tell you what happens. You don't have to watch."

Yeah, he does. He really, really does.

Abby grips his hand between both of hers, fingers thin and bony. She's shaking, Harley realizes, trembling where she stands. 

He leads her over to the couch and sits her down. Gently pushes her books to the floor. Sinks into the cushions on her right so that she's nestled between himself and Macy, winding an arm around her shoulders and holding her close.

The television fizzles on.

The volume crackles.

The announcement begins.

_"Good evening, everyone, and welcome to the pre-reaping announcements for the third Quarter Quell!"_ The Grandmaster says in a bubbly, overly-happy voice. There's blue paint on his lips, his eyelids, his forehead. He looks like the clowns that Harley used to be scared of, and it only makes his hatred grow. He inches closer to Abby as if it'll protect her.

_"We're looking forward to a very eventful year, full of twists and turns and- hopefully- blood!"_ The audience laughs; Harley doesn't. _"Before we get to the announcement of our special changes, however excited we are for everyone to find out, we have an important change to our Games requirements. If everyone could listen in-"_ at that, he leans closer and places a manicured finger over his lips- _"that would be absolutely lovely, because we're sure this is something you're going to want to hear."_

Not really. Harley inhales deep through his nose, exhales, calms himself down. Abby does the same.

_"This year, as a special kind of treat and acting on instructions directly from President Thanos himself, the reaping criteria have been changed! The base year has been dropped-"_

Just like Harley's stomach as he looks to Macy, eyes wide, bile creeping its way up his throat-

_"To involve all child citizens above the age of eleven! Happy Hunger Games, everyone. And now, on to our original programming-"_

He barely makes it to the window before his stomach empties itself and he throws up in the bushes, head spinning, still reeling.

She was supposed to be safe.

_She was supposed to be safe._

Vaguely, he can feel calloused hands gripping his shoulders and pulling him back into the house, helping him onto the couch, pressing a glass of lukewarm water into his shaking, shaking hands. Macy is blurry, blonde-gray hair wispy around her eyes. She's crying; he can see water dripping down her cheeks and onto her blouse. Abby's crying, too, gripping his side and burying her face in his shirt. Her tears seep through the fabric and onto his skin.

His eyes are stinging.

He wants to cry.

Somehow, though, he can't muster up the strength to force his tears. He just... sits, still and scared, and watches as the Gamemaster tells them that boys can now volunteer for girls and the tesserae has been cut to avoid unnecessary name add-ins, as the camera pans to a nervous man carrying an envelope, as they open it and pull out a piece of paper.

"I love you," he chokes out, pulling Abby into a hug. "You're going to be okay, they're not going to choose you. It won't be you. I swear. I love you, I love you."

Dimly, he hears her telling him that she knows. She loves him too. Everything is going to be okay.

But all he can pay attention to is the paper being unfolded and the movement of the Grandmaster's lips.

_"This year, for the Quarter Quell, a single victor will be reaped from each district in addition to the two child citizens. This is to remind the districts that, even when they think that the strongest among them fight **only**_ _for them, there are no sides to be taken. When in the arena, even your heroes will hurt and slaughter the weakest among you to survive. The only heroes are the Capitol,"_ he says with an air of finality. _"We fight for you. Your victors will fall from glory just as quickly as your predecessors fell from their rebellion."_

Audio cuts out. Fades to black. Harley is left staring at his reflection in the screen, eyes wide and haunted as he grips Macy and Abby like he's their last protector.

Maybe he is.

⇿

_Shaking hands._

_Blood._

_A low gurgling sound, muffled by three or four inches of water, as bubbles fly to the surface and pop._

_Quentin's hair floats around in the water, soft and deep brown, whirling around with streams of red from an open cut on his left cheekbone. His green eyes are wide, insane, animalistic. He wants to live. Wants to win. Wants to go home to his family._

_But he killed Harry and Miles and Gwen. He is Peter's biggest competitor- his only competitor at this point._

_He is the only thing that stands between Peter and freedom, and he is not going home._

_Peter presses down harder on Quentin's neck, forcing it into the gravel of the stream bed, and grits his teeth against the urge to let him up and run. He wants nothing more than to look away as green eyes cloud over, as the bubbles slow to an unsteady stream._

_Quentin is still struggling. His fingernails, overly-long and jagged, dig into Peter's forearms with a renewed ferocity. Blood drips down his skin and into the water, mixing with free-floating particles of sand. He can't feel the pain, can't feel the fear, can't feel the intense sadness and anger that will rip through his body in thirty minutes time when he manages to break out of shock and falls apart in the hovercraft._

_It is with a detached apathy that Peter forces his fingers under Quentin's chin and, ignoring the hands scrabbling at his skin, waits._

_And waits._

_And waits._

_Until, finally, after what feels like a lifetime has passed, his final opponent closes his eyes and goes slack under the water. The bubbles stop rising to the surface. His hands, limp and still, splash back into the water. Peter waits for a few minutes to make sure he's finally dead before dusting his hands off and stepping back to stare down at Quentin's body, head tilted to one side._

_He isn't feeling anything._

_He **can't** feel anything._

_Quentin looks small in death, just like Harry and Miles and Gwen had. His body lies half-in, half-out of the water until, with a gentle nudge of his foot, Peter pushes him further in so that his body can drift away._

_It feels appropriate._

_Peter wants to drift away, too._

_He steps back once, twice, finally ready to turn away and leave this arena, but suddenly the body in the water is morphing into that of an older man with graying hair and a black bruise on his forehead and wide, familiar eyes and he's screaming, screaming, screamingscreamingscreaming-_

_It's his fault._

_It's his fault._

_It's his-_

"Peter, honey, it's just a nightmare. It's just a nightmare." Hands shake his forearms, but these are gentle and small and soft. Familiar. "Baby, wake up now. You've gotta wake up, baby."

Peter gasps into consciousness, eyes wide open, and reaches up to grip his chest with both hands like he wants to rip his heart out of his ribcage. His fingers twirl into the fabric of his sweat-soaked shirt and, all of a sudden, he realizes he's crying. Open-mouthed sobs that hurt his chest and his head and his heart.

He's been crying a lot lately. It's probably the mind-numbing terror of knowing that the anniversary of your descent into madness is marching closer and closer and you can do nothing to stop it.

So he's not totally crazy. Just a little bit. Maybe. 

He hasn't decided yet.

May, ashy brown hair swinging around in the bright lights, lowers herself to the mattress beside Peter and wraps her arms around his shoulders as he cries. Absently, he can tell that she's crying, too. He can't do anything about that, though.

It must be hard to watch your only living family member morph into a monster in front of your eyes.

She's probably having a hard time with that.

"Time's it?" Peter asks groggily, rubbing at his eyes with the palm of his hand. " 'S it late?"

"You slept in," May confirms. "It's three in the afternoon, baby."

"And you let me?"

"You seemed like you needed it." A pause. "And... I knew how hard today would be for you. I figured it would be easier for you to sleep through it."

She sounds guilty. Why should she be? Why would today be hard for him? Peter rakes his mind, eyebrows furrowed. Goes through every possible conclusion before he happens upon the only possible one that could mess May up like this. The only one that could mess _him_ up like this.

"Quarter Quell," he mutters, still wiping tears away. "Today's the announcement?"

"In two hours."

The confirmation sends his heart plummeting into his stomach. He barely holds back the wave of sickness that hits him, placing his hand on his forehead and rubbing as gently as he can to push the incoming headache back.

"Oh."

May smiles, nods, blinks her tears away. "Yeah, baby. It's okay."

"Right."

It doesn't feel okay. In fact, Peter feels like he's never going to feel okay again. He feels like he wants to bury himself six feet underground with the rest of the tributes- with Gwen, his district partner; with Harry, the first friend he had managed to make upon arrival to the Capitol; with Miles, who he should've worked harder to protect.

With Quentin. 

In the end, even though Peter had been forced to act as judge, jury, and executioner to save his own skin, Quentin had not deserved to die. He had killed more ruthlessly than nearly everyone in the arena except Peter, had destroyed families and homes and friendships that should've lasted so much longer.

But he hadn't deserved to die.

_I can't close my eyes without seeing him,_ Peter wants to say. _I can't sleep without seeing him. Them. All of them._

But he doesn't.

The voices clamor inside his skull, fighting to make their way out and destroy the others. He hears them all the time- every waking and sleeping moment of his life. They overtake his own thoughts, force him out of himself. Take him over. Peter Parker is a machine, and a broken one at that.

A broken killing machine.

Sometimes he can't even hear himself.

Instead of telling May, instead of seeking the help he so desperately needs, he smiles and nods and thanks her quietly. She does the same- smiles, nods, tells him it isn't a problem. Her lips curve downwards as she stands and leaves the room, closing the door as quietly as she can to avoid startling him.

He can't deal with loud noises anymore, either. It's the last on a long list of new defects.

"May," he says, but it's too late. She's gone.

Peter is alone.

He sinks back into himself, closes his eyes, and lets the voices sweep him away like water.

Time is fluid.

Blood is fluid.

In Peter's mind, time is the same as blood- everywhere and nowhere and very, very red.

He doesn't know how long he waits, seated stock-still in his bed, still tangled in the bedsheets from tossing in his nightmares. His eyes are open, far away, and his mind? His mind is in the arena.

His mind never left the arena.

The sheets are soft between his hands. He doesn't know what kind of fabric this is, but it's much better than the sheets on his bed in their old house. Victor's Village has it's perks, he supposes. Perks won through violence.

That's interesting. He doesn't normally think of things in a work-and-gain way. 

Peter just moves.

Forward.

He tracks the arc of the sun in the sky until it disappears from view, fading behind the treeline. He knows that this means that the announcement is going to air in a few minutes, but he doesn't really care. He's played this game before and, technically, he has a few years left before he can finally try to leave this behind.

Is his name still going in the bowl? If you're still a kid, do they put you in again?

He doesn't know. Doesn't care. 

Ah, well.

May comes to get him when the television turns on automatically. She has to help him disentangle his legs from the sheets, picking him up like a little kid and helping him down the stairs. His right leg is still stiff and hard to walk on from an injury he took in that last fight with Beck. 

The doctors think he'll recover physically. Peter knows he's never going to be able to move as fluidly as he used to; his joints are stiff, tired, and overworked from flying through the arena.

May sets him down on the couch and helps him cover his legs with a heavy quilt before sitting down behind him and winding her arms around his shoulders. He leans into her touch, gripping the comforter with tight fingers, and watches as the Capitol seal shows up on the screen. As the program begins. As the Grandmaster appears.

He'd been wearing red during Peter's year. He's blue now. 

Peter doesn't like those colors anymore.

He half-listens to the first part of the announcement, only managing to catch the gist of the situation- they're sending in a bunch of children this year. Opening the gates for tiny little babies to join up. Eleven-year-olds. Practically toddlers, he thinks, ignoring the catch of May's breath.

It's the same assistant as last year who brings up the envelope containing this year's Quarter Quell specifications. Brad. Peter remembers Brad and the way he wore his glasses and helped him up onto the stage for his interview after he'd had a panic attack.

He likes Brad. Doesn't love him. He's decidedly tolerable.

The Grandmaster takes the envelope delicately, pulls the paper out, and grins a whole-faced grin that makes Peter's spine crawl. Suddenly very much aware and grounded, he pulls his knees up to his chest and sits ram-rod straight. May's hand falls from his shoulder.

She's crying again. She needs to stop doing that. It's going to make him cry, too.

_"This year, for the Quarter Quell, a single victor will be reaped from each district in addition to the two child citizens. This is to remind the districts that, even when they think that the strongest among them fight **only**_ _for them, there are no sides to be taken."_ Peter had taken only one side during his stint in the Games, and that had been his own. _"When in the arena, even your heroes will hurt and slaughter the weakest among you to survive. The only heroes are the Capitol._ _We fight for you. Your victors will fall from glory just as quickly as your predecessors fell from their rebellion."_

"The hell?" Peter mutters, turning the program back and replaying the announcement. "May, what did he say?"

"They're- they're reaping a victor, baby," she sniffs. "He said someone's going back into the arena."

It takes a moment for his synapses to fire and connect. The words don't make much sense- _back into the arena_ is not something that he can handle right now. It's just not in his dictionary. He doesn't _understand._

"Say it again," he orders, painfully aware of how hoarse his voice is. "Say it _again_ , May."

She does as he says, repeating it tearily. The words don't change.

"They're reaping a victor." 

_Reaping a victor._

_Reaping a victor._

_Victor._

_Victor._

"I'm a victor." Peter takes a deep, shuddering breath. "I'm a victor."

May sobs once and nods before leaning in and pulling Peter into a tight hug, burying her face in the crook of his neck. "You are, Peter. You are."

Blurrily, he feels her rubbing his shoulders as she cries and tells him that everything is going to be okay. She's been telling him that a lot lately, and he doesn't think she's right. How can things be okay in the end when he's been put through the things he's had to do? How can he deal with this again? What can he do to make sure it doesn't happen again?

Compartmentalize. He's going to compartmentalize and lock everything up in file cabinets and leave it alone.

There are ten living, active, healthy District Two victors up for reaping. Three who've managed to sink into their respective traumas and can barely walk in straight lines. Seven dead.

Statistically, Two has the most victors. Highest kill count. Possible tributes train from age ten to get stronger, faster, and better with weapons. Peter has known from a very young age that he was going to go into the Games, so when his trainer had told him it was his year, he had volunteered.

It wasn't that he'd wanted to. It was just the way things were- they told you to go, you went. Didn't matter if you lived or died. The strongest competitors had the best chance of giving their District honor and a good name.

Peter had played his part like the well-trained lapdog he was, and he had been left to pick himself up when they'd gotten bored with him. Apparently, they're not done quite yet.

He wants to be safe.

Some part of him, deep down, knows that he's not.

A one in thirteen chance isn't small enough to grant him that. 

⇿

The day Morgan had been born was the best day of Tony Stark's life- he can say that with absolutely no doubt, because it's true. 

She had come into the world a crying bundle of soft brown hair and squinted eyes. He had loved her the minute he'd seen her, and holding her for the first time? That jolt of euphoria is something that he thinks about daily. Watching Pepper cry as she held her daughter, hair messily pulled out of her face, still breathing heavily from the pain, he had known.

He'd made it out of that arena once and for all.

Tony had been sixteen when he'd been reaped for the Forty-Fifth Hunger Games, barely missing the bloodiest Quarter Quell to date. He'd been devastated- after all, District Eight rarely had victors. When he had stared out at that crowd, _praying_ for one of those silent, drawn faces to speak up and save him, and hadn't heard a word?

That was when he had realized that there were no heroes in this world. 

He certainly wasn't one; he'd been lauded as a savior by his district after being the first survivor in years, but he had never accepted any of the praise. He had simply continued to live, never to thrive. Had continued to fight for himself.

Until he had met Pepper, life had been a fight and a fight only.

After Pepper, everything took on a new meaning. 

Colors were bright again. He could hear the birds again, could hear laughter and music and insects buzzing in a way he had never been able to after those Games. Pepper had brought him back to life and kept him there, and he would never be able to thank her enough for pulling him out of the dark place his mind had become. He'd met other victors and knew that some people didn't have someone to save them.

Those were the saddest ones. The kids without anyone to hold them up, who ended up falling through the cracks of their memories and turning either into shells or monsters.

No, Tony had _escaped_ that. He was never going to be able to forget it. But he was home free.

Morgan was the second love of his life. He was able to watch her grow, change, morph into a beautiful girl and a beautiful teenager and a beautiful young woman.

She was reaped at seventeen. Tony remembers falling into Pepper's arms when he'd heard her name called from that godawful microphone. He remembers telling her that, even though she's not going to want to kill and hurt and fight back, she has to. There's no choice, plain and simple, and if she sees the chance to come back, she has to take it.

Morgan loses her left hand.

Morgan leaves part of herself in the arena, just like Tony had.

But she comes home, and over time, she mends. 

Just like Tony had.

They understand each other in a way they hadn't been able to before her reaping. Tony holds Morgan when she wakes up from nightmares, helps her out of panic attacks, teaches her to write with her non-dominant hand. Morgan gives him tissues when he cries after flashbacks and talks him down from every mental cliff he manages to get himself onto.

Pepper holds them both together. She is, in essence, the glue of their family. The only thing keeping them rooted to the ground.

They aren't a perfect family- damaged, terrified, hurting- but they are, in the end, _whole._

That's the only thing that matters, right?

At least they feel pretty whole right now.

Tony sits up on the couch, blinks the sleep out of his eyes, and glances over to look at his wife and daughter. They're asleep on the other end of their Capitol-issued L-shaped sofa, Morgan nestled under Pepper's chin, identical expressions of peace on their faces.

They look so much alike- Morgan has Pepper's facial structure and birdlike, tall build. She'd gotten Tony's hair, eyes, and skin tone, but in the end she looks the most like her mother.

She's twenty-three now. _Twenty-three,_ and Tony's baby. His beloved, broken baby.

This is the first dreamless sleep she's had in a while. He needs to make sure nothing interrupts it.

They don't move for what seems like hours- the sedentary lifestyle tends to take over those who haven't ever been exposed- and Tony is perfectly happy to sit and wait it out. These are fleeting moments, rarely caught and even more rarely enjoyed.

The reaping announcement is scheduled to start in a few minutes and Tony, even though he knows they'll kill him when they wake up, isn't planning on waking up his wife or daughter. They don't need to see this, and if they ask later, he can give them his own watered-down version of whatever happens. They've been through enough, dealt with enough, watched this enough. 

He can take it for all of them. No problem, no stress. 

_It'll be easier this way,_ Tony tells himself. It probably won't. Does that really matter, though?

The consequences of his actions are for him to deal with and him alone. Morgan and Pepper don't need to have a part in this.

Like it knows what he's thinking of, the Capitol seal blurs into being on the screen of their television set. The raw feeling of anger that fills his chest, hot and burning, is familiar- he feels it every time the people who did this to him are mentioned.

The Grandmaster, clad in blue-paint makeup, is the first to appear on the screen. Tony's been watching him since he was young, after he had replaced Flickerman, and he _hates_ him. Thanos' first cowardly lackey, right up there in the front runners for gamespeople, and the second person on Tony's list of people to shoot.

His very personality is _grating._ Tony wants to wipe that smug grin off of his face.

_"Good evening, everyone, and welcome to the pre-reaping announcements for the third Quarter Quell!"_ God, Tony despises his voice. _"We're looking forward to a very eventful year, full of twists and turns and- hopefully- blood!"_ Sick bastard, like this stuff doesn't kill people and destroy families. Tony's met some of the other victors- the younger ones from the most bloody games- and he knows that he was lucky to get his year, to avoid the worst. The Games have gotten worse and worse over the last decade and, if Tony's impressions of the kid victors is accurate, they're all messed up in the head.

He listens, brooding, as the Grandmaster announces the lowering of the age requirements- they're sending _babies_ in, dear God- and goes on and on about how excited he is. Like these aren't death traps. Like they aren't killing _kids._

And then he gets into the Quell announcements and Tony almost passes out, because he can't catch every word without wanting to _actually die._ Reaping victors. Reaping victors. Reaping victors.

They've managed to lower the age requirements and bring the most deadly killers into the arena all together in _one Games announcement._ The kids' life expectancies are dropping as Tony's heartbeat elevates, because there are _three District Eight Victors._

Tony and Morgan are two of them.

And Morgan is _not_ going back into that arena.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, everyone! Thank you for reading <3 This fic will be updated on a weekly basis (follow my tumblr, silver-bubbles, to yell at me about it!) and I haven't decided which day it'll be up on. I know it's going slowly, but next chapter, the action starts! They'll be going into the arena in CHAPTER EIGHT.
> 
> Chapter warnings: past character death (described), mental health issues, a panic attack, and general violence (nothing particularly graphic)

_**"Where they strung up a man they say who murdered three."** _

_**-** _

Abby's dress is heather gray, made of threadbare fabric that Harley knows won't protect her from the chill. It feels rough against his skin as he ties up the back and buttons the collar, chipped wood snagging on loose threads, but he doesn't say anything. She'll be alright for today. She's going to get through this.

He just doesn't know if he'll be getting through it with her.

Helping her get dressed for the reaping feels like he's tying a ribbon around the neck of a lamb about to be slaughtered. 

His chest thrums, buzzes, as he dresses himself in a button-up shirt that had belonged to his father and ties the laces of his worn shoes. His heart seems to be trying to beat its way past his ribs and out of his skin- maybe it wants to fly away before he's trapped and it can't escape. In the end, though, no matter how hard it tries, it can't get away from him.

That's how he feels. Trapped. Like he can't escape, can't run away from every child's nightmare.

Harley's hands are shaking. He looks down at his trembling fingers, runs the pad of his index finger over callouses built up from years of building boats for the fishermen to take out to sea and finding broken boards on the beach.

He's strong. Very strong, really, but he'd have to be deluded to think that he could win the Games.

Macy knocks on the thin wooden door of his bedroom, sending a few flakes of white paint floating to the ground like snow. Ash, maybe. 

"Come in," Harley says (maybe a bit louder than necessary) before sitting down on his bed and straightening the collar of his shirt.

Macy looks even more tired than she had yesterday, gray hair making her look so much older than forty. She hesitates at the doorway, fingers knotted together, before stepping over the threshold and making her way across uneven boards to stand beside Harley.

"Can I sit?" She asks. Her voice cracks.

Harley winces, nods quickly. Her blue eyes- the same color as his with twice as much exhaustion- fill with tears.

The mattress dips as she sits, knobby ankles crossed primly beneath the white skirt of her dress. Macy slowly winds an arm around his shoulder, gently tapping patterns into his shoulder, and leans into him.

They haven't sat together like this since her husband left.

"This must be hard for you," Harley says, voice flat. "Watching her grow up."

"Nearly as hard as watching you grow up, Harley."

A single tear drips down her wrinkled cheek, lingers at the curve of her jaw, and falls onto Harley's knit blanket.

"You grew up too fast."

"I know."

_You didn't have to say it out loud._

"And I didn't even give you a choice."

Harley shrugs. His teeth squeak together as he clenches his jaw, taking a deep breath. His heart, still pounding with the speed of a hummingbird's winds, refuses to calm itself.

"You weren't here," he murmurs despite his better judgment. Everything inside of him tells him to leave it there, to let it go, but he's starting to realize that if he doesn't say it now, there's a chance that he never will. "Somebody had to take care of her and it wasn't gonna to be you. _I_ had to take care of her, Mom, for _years,_ and I can't shake the feeling that I fucked up. What if I did it wrong? Made a mistake? What's going to happen to her if I made a mistake?"

Macy's expression softens, the lines around her mouth suddenly gentle and sad. "Harley James Keener," she says, strict but kind, "I don't ever want to hear anything like that come out of your mouth again, hear me?"

He nods. She seems to be able to tell that her order hasnt' gone through, though, and continues with a sad chuckle.

"I wasn't here for you, Harley. I know that and I'm always going to regret it. But you were here for her in a way that neither your father or me could be, and that is always going to stay with her." A sigh. "She loves you so much, honey. More than anything. You were the parent I wasn't, and that was the parent she needed."

Harley sniffs, trying to ignore the fact that he's about to cry, and nods. She hasn't spoken to him this candidly for as long as he can remember, and _God,_ it's sending him back to the days of scraped knees and band-aids.

"I am _so proud of you,_ Harley James," Macy says. She _smiles,_ a full-mouthed smile that he hasn't seen on her face since his father disappeared, and now he's crying again. "And I want you to know that, whatever happens today, I always will be."

He can't hold back the tears, now, because the floodgates have been opened and the sheer force behind them can't be stopped. They roll down his face onto the neatly pressed collar of his shirt, over his dark lashes, down the straight bridge of his nose and the bow of his lips. He leans into Macy, wrapping his arms around her chest, because somehow, he knows.

He knows that something bad is going to happen today, and he knows that this is his last chance to do this.

His last chance to make amends with his _mother_ for everything over the past decade that's left him broken and hollow inside.

She has always been here for him in her own way, even if it's been in the background instead of the front where she _needed_ to be. No matter how far into her mind she's retreated, no matter how many hours she sat motionless at that kitchen table, she has always been there.

She's doing her best.

"I love you, momma," he says. "I really do."

"I know, baby."

Macy brushes her thumb under his eyes and wipes the tears away, smiling in that gentle, melancholy way of hers. He smiles back, watery and barely there, but _there._

"Thank you," she whispers. It's like she knows and, now that he's looking into her eyes, he can tell that she does. She knows she's been forgiven, and that means _he's_ been forgiven.

Abby, Macy, and Harley Keener walk through the town hand-in-hand for the first time in years on the way to the Reaping. For once, he doesn't pull away.

It feels right. Climactic. Very, very final.

But good.

_Still good._

The main square is filled with people of every age, yet to be sorted out into teenagers and the rest of Four's population. This is just the main town, sure; there are plenty of outlying villages and standalone houses, but everyone is going to cycle through this place today. Harley can see at least four hundred children making their way through the peacekeeper-manned stations, pricking their fingers and putting in their names to make sure everyone is accounted for.

According to his math, there should be at least eight hundred children signed up for Four.

Also according to his math, his name is going to be in the glass ball about forty-two times, give or take a few (he never finished school, but he's fairly certain he's right).

Harley leans in to kiss Macy on the cheek, taking Abby by the shoulders. She's shaking beneath his hands, barely able to hide her anxiety, and reaches up to slip her hand into his. Macy leans down to press her lips to her daughter's forehead and tells her, voice barely audible, that everything is going to be okay.

"I'll see you soon." Harley forces a smile, nodding as reassuringly as he possibly can. Then, just in case, "I love you."

Abby echoes him, voice trembling. "Love you, mom."

"I love you both," Macy says. She's barely holding her tears back. "Go ahead, now. Go ahead."

They do as she says, Harley steering Abby toward the peacekeepers by the shoulders until Macy is gone from view and she can finally turn around and walk by herself. They push through throngs of adults saying their good-byes to their children to feed into their respective lines- Abby with the eleven-year-olds, scared children with tear tracks on their faces, and Harley with the towering seventeen-year-olds. He shoots her a reassuring smile before turning back to his line.

The girl in front of him barely comes up to his shoulder. The boy behind him, his ear. Harley stands above these people, shoulders rigid, back straight, and stares straight ahead. He won't let anyone know how his fingers tap against his leg at an uncontrollable pace, how his jaw keeps clenching and unclenching without his body's approval.

How much he wants to cry.

That foreboding feeling is back again, this time stronger, no longer held back by the happiness that had come with reconciling with his mother. He takes a deep breath and blinks the salt away before stepping forward. 

He doesn't know where the victors are. They'll probably come out later; after all, flair is very much the Capitol's style.

The line steadily feeds through the station until there are three people in front of him. Two people in front of him. The girl whimpers when her finger is pricked, gives her name- Karen Page- and steps through the gap between tables until there is only Harley.

He has to bend down so that the peacekeeper can reach his hand. The prick is sharp and quick (definitely not worth crying over) and draws a bead of scarlet blood, which is smeared onto a paper with all of Harley's information written down in clear, black font.

"Name?" The peacekeeper asks, bored and maybe a little bit angry. Abrasive, that's the word.

Harley stands up straight and stares down at him, eyes dark, unwilling to portray any weakness.

"Harley James Keener."

He steps through the gap into the crowd of waiting children. Gravel crunches under his shoes. 

He is stone, unyielding and sharp. But even time can wear down the harshest rock face.

It seems like it takes hours for the peacekeepers to funnel everyone into their proper place, but it does happen eventually and on time. There is no speaking- nobody can muster up the strength to make small talk right now, not with the threat of certain death hanging over their heads. The boy on Harley's left is crying, the girl on his right can't stop talking to herself. Harley places his thumbnail in his mouth and bites down, taking a deep breath.

The reaping begins.

District Four's escort and announcer is a middle-aged man named Phillip Coulson. He has a receding hairline, pale skin, kind eyes. Looks pretty normal for someone from the Capitol, but there seem to be a few odd ones out in every batch. Harley wants to hate him for what he does to children every year, pulling them into the Games with those very fingers, but he can't seem to bother. Hatred takes up too much time and energy.

"Hello, everyone," he says, holding his mouth close to the microphone. "And welcome to the Seventy-Fifth Hunger Games! This year is a Quarter Quell, and even though I know everyone's already seen the announcements-" _You act like anyone had a choice-_ "I'm going to go over the rules again to make sure we all know what we're getting into.

"This year, in addition to the male and female tributes from each District, a victor from one of the previous Games will also be reaped. This is to enforce the fact that, even though they say that they fight for you, even your strongest warriors bend to the will of the Capitol." A dramatic pause. "After all, the only people who are truly on your side are the Capitol! President Thanos fights for you, District Four, and anyone else who says they do is lying."

_Tony Stark didn't look like he was lying when he rigged the arena to explode and killed six Career tributes in the name of District Eight._

_Nebula and Gamora didn't look like they were lying when they died protecting their district partners._

_Peter Parker didn't look like he was lying when he killed Quentin Beck and every other person in the arena that had posed a threat to Miles Morales._

But they don't talk about that. They only talk about the Capitol and its systematic killing of _actual children._

As if on cue, a group of men and women file up onto the stage. Harley doesn't recognize most of them- he hadn't paid much attention to the Games until he'd been old enough to volunteer, and Four's only had two victors since then.

Scott Lang stands between an old woman with wavy white hair and the only other victor Harley knows: Maria Hill. They're both pale and shaky (he can see the tremors from here) and Scott looks like he wants to pass out.

His year had been brutal, with the death of Janet van Dyne leaving Four reeling. He had won for her. 

_How can they say that they don't fight for us?_

"Now, if you'll all direct your attention to the screen..."

Harley doesn't bother to actually _watch._ They play the same thing every year, outlining the most brutal deaths and re-educating them all about the rebellion and its consequences. He can read the script from memory at this point, and he honestly doesn't give a shit.

But they've changed it this time. Instead of the most memorable kills, the entire district now gets to watch Tony Stark send the entire arena up in flames, Peter Parker sobbing on the ground as he holds Miles' body, and Scott as he stabs Darren Cross in the chest.

Harley looks up to Scott for his reaction. He has tears in his eyes and, even though he's sure they don't think anyone sees it, Maria Hill has her hand on his elbow. 

They did this on purpose, the Capitol. To get a rise out of the victors, maybe make a show out of it. Harley wonders if, across the other districts, anyone is going to rise to the bait.

"Now," Coulson says, stepping over to one of the three glass bowls on the stage once the video is over. "On to the reaping! This year, we're going to be starting with the victors and moving to the gentlemen, then the ladies. Happy Hunger Games, everyone- and may the odds be ever in your favor!"

Harley can see Abby out of the corner of his eye. She's crying, nose pink, and he can't tell if it's from the video or the fear she must be feeling.

He has to be strong. If not for himself, then for her.

Coulson reaches into the first bowl with one hands. There isn't much paper at his base, but he still gropes around in thin air for effect before pinching a single slip between thumb and forefinger.

The entire district holds its breath as he unfolds it, holding it up to his face before grinning like a madman.

"Scott Lang!"

 _Poor Scott,_ Harley thinks as the man in question winces and turns to press a kiss to Maria's cheek before stepping up to stand beside Coulson. He's not crying- not now, anyway. Harley can see the fear in his eyes, though, and knows that Scott wants to be anywhere but there.

Coulson greets him like an old friend, and he actually has enough strength to smile warily. Scott nods at the crowd slowly, eyes combing over faces until he seems to be satisfied and turns back to the stage.

"Now, the gentleman," Coulson says. He reaches into the second bowl with less enthusiasm and pulls out a name, unfolding it as slowly as he can and reading it over only once.

Harley wants to vomit. He _actually_ wants to vomit because this is _his last time_ , it's his last time and he's almost out, almost out, almost out just let him be done-

"Thomas Bringman."

He wants to faint.

Thomas is a fifteen-year-old kid who had been a few years ahead in school. Harley knows him vaguely- quiet, smart, minded his own business. Respectful to teachers. Thomas had spent his spare time mending nets for the fishermen when they were torn so they wouldn't have to spend any extra time doing it themselves.

He's going to die.

Thomas is standing between a pair of young girls who are watching him like they're about to burst into tears. He's small, pale, terrified as he steps forward to go with the peacekeeper and stand beside Scott, but before they can move him more than two paces, there's a shout from Harley's side.

The girl steps forward, dark eyes lifted skyward, and raises a hand before uttering the fateful words that Harley has only heard once in his life.

_"I volunteer as tribute!"_

Dead silence.

Harley stares at her like she's gone insane as she steps forward, pushing past his shoulder. Her eyes are locked on Scott with an amount of love that Harley knows only family can possess, but the only look on Scott's face is horror.

"Cassie, _no!"_ He screams, jolting to the edge of the stage, a man possessed. " _No,_ Cassie, _no you can't-"_

His daughter. Cassie Lang.

 _God,_ Harley thinks, swallowing deeply as the peacekeepers have to restrain Scott and help Cassie to her father's side. He can't imagine making that sacrifice- actually, he can.

He would do it for his mother or Abby without thinking. Time and time again, he would do it for them.

Even the peacekeepers don't stop Scott from pulling Cassie into his arms. The District watches silently as they embrace, shoulders shaking, in front of cameras that will show millions of people this sacrifice.

Coulson looks very uncomfortable. Something tells Harley that this wasn't what he was expecting.

"Now for the ladies," he says, voice shaky and unsure. "Uh- yes, the ladies."

Never in Harley's life has he seen a Capitol escort break composure so obviously.

Coulson seems to regain a bit of his charm as he reaches into the third and final bowl, feeling around with spindly fingers. He actually reaches into the pile of paper this time and fiddles around until he feels something he likes, pulling a slip of white from the bottom.

This is it.

Harley watches as the paper is unfolded and read over. The moment seems like it's suspended over countless hours, seconds ticking by like minutes.

Coulson's lips form a name, and that name sends Harley's feet out from under him.

_"Abigail Keener."_

No.

No. _No. No._

Harley is drowning, held up by the boy who had been standing beside him. The water is no longer calm and clear- no, there is foam in these waves, whitecaps, washing over his head and dragging him under, under, under. 

He is falling so far down into this ocean.

Abby.

Abby.

 ** _"Abby!"_ **He yells, voice wrenching out of his chest as he finally catches a glimpse of her narrow shoulders and barely-brushed hair. "Abby, _stop, **stop!** Let her go, please, please let her go! **No!** "_

Harley is barely able to get his senses and force himself back onto his feet, but when he finally does, he's pushing through the crowd toward the peacekeepers and one of the only people he loves in this world. He pulls her away quickly, roughly, and pushes her behind his body like he's going to protect her against guns and tasers.

He doesn't even realizes what he's saying until he's said it.

**_"I volunteer as tribute!"_ **

The square is quiet, just like it had been when Cassie had volunteered for Thomas. He can hear faint crying- his mother, probably, mourning the near loss of one child and the total loss of the other.

It's better him than Abby, though.

Just in case they hadn't heard him, Harley draws himself up to his full height and glares the closest peacekeeper straight in the eyes.

"I volunteer as tribute," he growls, pushing past them and up onto the stage. "Not her."

Coulson is pale as he hands Harley the microphone and pushes him to stand beside Cassie, who sends a solitary nod his way. "What's your name?" He asks.

"Harley James Keener," Harley replies, looking where he knows the cameras are. "I'm Harley James Keener."

The rest of the reaping ceremony goes by in the blink of an eye, and so do the final goodbyes. Harley is led into the courthouse and told to wait in an office until his mother and sister get there to say their farewells in five minutes; only five minutes are allowed. The orders are clear.

Abby cries the whole five minutes and tells him he shouldn't have done it.

He tells her to shut up. He loves her and he'd do it again.

Macy is crying, too, but she doesn't tell him that he should've let Abby go. She just pulls him into a hug and holds him for a minute or so, tells him she loves him, and kisses him on the tip of his nose like she'd done when he was young.

The last thing he hears before the peacekeepers drag him through the doors and into a sleek, shining train is Abby's desperate shout of _"Try to win, Harley! You have to win!"._

He wishes he'd been able to tell her that he can't.

Harley sits on top of the velvet seat, stares out the window, and mourns his own death.

⇿

Two's victors are all lined up in a neat row beside the stage, just out of view of the crowd. The area is completely silent- even the hum of the crowd isn't enough to make this awkward quiet feel remotely normal. They're all sizing each other up, deciding whether or not to volunteer. Career shit.

Peter's sick of it.

He's standing next to two people he doesn't know and barely recognizes- Peggy Carter, Sixtieth Games, who looks like she wants to snap somebody's neck, and Kang, made of muscle and strength and rock-hard anger.

Even the Career districts aren't happy about going into the arena. One taste of it is enough for everybody, even the volunteers; if you make it out, you never want to experience anything even remotely similar ever again.

Eight peacekeepers stand between Two's escort, Christine Everhart (Peter hates her with every bone in his body) like the victors might attack her. Peter, gait wide and assured, considers it for a moment; it would be very easy for him to push past one or two guards and get in a punch before he finds out whether or not he's going to die.

Peggy would probably pull him back, though. 

From what he's heard about her, she's pretty nice. Quiet, nonviolent for a Career tribute. After her win, Peggy had done her victory tour and faded into the background.

Nobody sees much of her anymore.

Peter swivels around to look her up and down- she retains all of the strength from her training and, even after all these years, her stance is as carefully measured as his. She notices quickly and, curls bouncing around her face, turns to face him. Her right eyebrow twitches up. The fingers on her left hand clench into a fist and, even from here, Peter can hear her knuckles crack.

"Something you want to say?" She whispers, squaring her shoulders. "Parker?"

Word gets around in this place. Peter hasn't missed the looks his fellow victors have been shooting him- fearful, nervous, contemptuous.

He knows that he's brutal, probably one of the worst of them.

He also knows that he doesn't very much care.

"Uh, no ma'am," Peter says, careful to keep his tone low and respectful. "I'm sorry."

Eyes wide, Peggy nearly takes a step back. She looks surprised- most people are when they realize that Peter, no matter how dangerous, isn't the raging maniac that the Capitol makes him out to be.

"That's- that's alright. Don't, ah, worry about it."

They're quiet for a moment, staring out over the crowd. Peter finds himself tapping the index finger of his left hand against his abdomen, right where he knows there's a scar from a Games injury. His bad leg is starting to ache again, a gentle throbbing pain from a brutal swing of Beck's improvised tree-branch club.

His knee had shattered on impact. The Capitol doctors had done their best to patch it up, but in the end, there had been too many shards of bone for it to be reassembled entirely. There are three screws in his kneecap now, holding it together under the stress of his bodyweight.

"Peggy, right?" He asks, eyes still on the crowd. "Carter?"

"Yes," Peggy says. She seems relieved for him to speak first, shoulders relaxing minutely. "And you're Peter Parker. We met on your tour last year."

"Ah."

The guilt he feels when she says, "You don't remember me?" buzzes up his spinal cord. Peter winces and shakes his head, snagging his lip between upper and lower teeth.

Peter had spent the entirety of his victory tour in a foggy haze. He remembers next to nothing other than scared faces looking up from the crowd and Miles' mother standing on that pedestal on her own, no father to look her son's inadvertent killer in the face.

He remembers breaking down in tears on the train nearly every night and spending all of his time wrapped up in his thoughts. His mentor, a man named Thor, had left him well alone.

Thor isn't here today. Peter wonders where he is.

A gentle hand falls onto his shoulder. Peggy's fingers are painted a vibrant shade of red and rounded off at the tips, and their shiny lacquer looks like blood in the little light that filters through the clouds overhead.

"I could tell that you weren't all there when I introduced myself," she murmurs. "Don't waste your energy worrying."

Peter nods, grateful, and leans into her touch as surreptitiously as he can. He's spent the last year holed up in his house in victor's village with May and May only after Ben- amazing, kind, forgiving Ben- had died at the hands of...

He can't think about that right now.

Nevertheless, it feels good to be understood by somebody.

They stand in silence, surrounded by the other victors, until the crowd goes completely silent and they're given the cue to walk up onto the stage. Peggy releases Peter's shoulder and turns to follow the line, and Peter follows her in turn. Kang follows him, an ever-present brick wall at his back.

This is painfully reminiscent of his time in the Capitol, before his own games. He doesn't like reminiscing.

Christine Everhard is decked out in the most outrageously ugly purple dress Peter has ever seen in his life. He has to stand directly behind her, at the center of the victor line, and her hair- bright blond and curling inches away from her head in every direction- obscures his view of the crowd. Still, if he tilts to one side, he can see most of the population of Two stretched out before them.

May is at the front of the crowd, staring up at him with tears in her eyes. Her brown hair is straight, fully brushed for once, and her white dress is pleated neatly. She looks pretty, like the pictures they have of when she was young.

She looks like his mother, Mary, long deceased and rotting in the ground.

Peter shoots May a gentle smile, blows her a kiss, and turns back to Christine. She's a major bitch, for lack of a better word- hadn't been able to give him an inch when he'd been traveling to the Capitol with Gwen, regardless of how hungry and devastated he had been. 

He'd nearly stabbed her with a butter knife. Gwen had spilled a fizzy brown drink on the table in front of her so that it had dripped into her lap.

She'd said it was an accident, but Peter knew better.

He wishes she had made it through.

"Welcome, District Two, and Happy Hunger Games!" Christine says in her trademarked bubbly voice, leaning into the microphone and tottering on four-inch heels. "I'm just thrilled- _positively thrilled-_ to be back in your lovely district to participate in another reaping, and I simply can't wait to see who we're going to be watching for the next few weeks! It's a lovely, _terribly_ exciting time of year, and I couldn't be happier to be here with you!"

"Get to the point!" Kang shouts, stage creaking beneath his feet. Peter barks out a surprised laugh and, beside him, Peggy stifles a chuckle with her fist.

Christine turns to glare at the victors behind her but, met with the force of their collective glares, quickly turns back and continues her speech. Peter barely listens- _reaping victors,_ blah blah blah, _two other tributes,_ blah blah blah, _merciful and gracious,_ blah blah _blah,_ he honestly doesn't care. He's heard this spiel before and once was more than enough.

They switch the video on, then, and because he's on national television, Peter turns to look up and watch. Something's different, though- instead of the usual _war, dangerous war_ lecture that glorifies the Capitol and talks about orphans and widows and all that touchy-feely bullshit, Peter is greeted with _Harry,_ blue eyes wide, dark hair hanging in curls around his face, blood gushing from his stomach.

_"Harry! Harry, **no!** "_

The voice emanating from the speakers is so intimately familiar that Peter takes a startled step back. It's him- Harry's last moments, the first of his friends to die, and he has to watch it all over again.

He remembers this. Remembers hurtling across the swamp toward Harry as he fell in what had seemed like slow motion, eyes drooping closed, and barely being able to catch him before he'd hit the water.

He watches, detached, as Past Peter cries over Harry's body. Then Gwen, drowning in the sudden tidal wave; he had barely been able to find her body. Then Miles', a spear buried in the young boy's gut, Peter screaming under a rainy sky. There's scarlet on Past Peter's hands. In his hair. On his lips.

He looks deranged. Insane. Manic.

This is probably why the Capitol had such an easy time convincing the districts and its own citizens that his mind had broken after the Games.

Who's to say it hasn't.

Peter forces himself to watch, even as his eyes burn and his head begins to spin. Kang, in front of him, turns and shoots him a pitying look. Peggy's fingers find his and she squeezes his hand once, reassuringly, before shifting closer to him.

She probably wants to make sure she can catch him if he falls.

Peter feels the eyes of thousands on him as the video ends and they turn back to the crowd. He refuses to look down, knows that everyone is watching him, knows that May is crying and, somewhere out there, Ned and Michelle- although they haven't spoken to him since the Games- are pitying him just like everyone else.

He doesn't want pity. He wants action. Revenge. _Anything but pity, please._

"Now, everyone," Christine says, peppy as always. "Let the reaping begin! I'm going to be starting with the victors, of course, just because we don't want all of you to have to stand up here for nothing!"

Nobody laughs.

Clearing her throat, Christine makes her way across the stage. Her heels tap-tap-tap their way across the wood floor, making hollow sounds every time they land. She stops across from the first glass bowl.

Thirteen names, and one of them is his. Thirteen names, and one of them is his. Thirteen, thirteen, thirteen.

Peggy steps even closer to him. Subconsciously, Peter reaches down to take Kang's huge, gnarled hand, and Kang does the same for Matthew, the man beside him. Every victor joins hands, gripping each other like lifelines, staring out at the crowd. Peggy is crying. Peter grits his teeth against the oncoming tears.

Christine dips her hand into the bowl and feels around for a moment, taking a piece of paper between her fingers and dropping it back in. She does this several times, probably as revenge for Kang's earlier comment, before picking a slip and finally pulling it out.

Unfolding it.

Peter knows a split second before she reads out the name on the paper, and he's already sobbing, leaning completely into Peggy so that she has to hold up his entire weight and Kang is trying to pull him up to save some of his dignity, but he doesn't care, he doesn't care, he doesn't _care._

"Peter Parker."

 _"Oh_ my _God!"_ May wails from the crowd, voice thick with tears. 

Even Peggy and Kang aren't enough to hold Peter up. His knees crumple beneath his body, no longer strong enough to support him, and he's hitting the splintering wooden stage before he can blink. He can't breathe- there just isn't enough room in his lungs- but he tries nonetheless, pulling a deep breath of nothing in through his mouth and subsequently choking on nothing.

Peggy kneels beside him. Her voice is trembling as she murmurs that she'll go for him, she'll go if it's okay with him, she can volunteer, but he just groans out a _no_ and grips her hand in white knuckles.

He can't let her do this.

"Peter, I can do this," she says, rubbing her thumb over his palm. "I'll volunteer and you can go home, Peter, it's okay-"

 _"No,_ " he growls again, shakily pushing himself to his feet. "No, I can't go home, Peggy, you don't _understand._ I'm still there, I'm still there, I'm still there-"

"Okay," Kang says. He reaches down and hauls Peter to his feet, eyes cold and yet simultaneously sad. "Okay, but you have to stand. You _have_ to stand."

Peter know what he means; he has to get himself together and save face, because his competitors are going to see him like this and he _can't_ come across as weak. He can do better than stand, though. 

He can _fight,_ and that's exactly what he's going to do.

Without a moment's thought, Peter shoves his broken, angry brain into a locked safe where he can deal with it later and bodily hurls himself at the nearest peacekeeper. The adrenaline of the moment means that he doesn't feel the man's frantic punch, pushes through what's going to be a brilliant shiner later, and _slams_ the peacekeeper into the wooden stage as hard as he possibly can. Sends his foot flying into his gut before stepping over him and, in a fit of anger, lashing out with his fist.

He doesn't know if he aimed for it.

He doesn't know if he meant to.

But, whether he meant to or not, the reaping bowl crashes into the stage just like Peter and the peacekeeper. Unlike Peter, though, it isn't strong enough to take a hit.

Shards of glass scatter across the platform. Behind them, twelve uniformly-cut pieces of paper follow, drifting neatly to the ground and landing among them.

Peter doesn't fight as the peacekeepers lead him away. He blows May a kiss, mouths good-bye, and throws his middle finger straight up into the air in Christine Everhart's general direction.

As the doors to the train close, Peter catches a glimpse of Peggy's teary face and nods resolutely, the hint of a smile gracing his lips.

The glass shattered.

Peter, no matter what anyone else says, _did not._

⇿

The phone call comes at ten in the morning, which is (in Tony’s opinion) much too early for anybody to be making important calls. If you want someone to listen to you, why would you contact them when you’re asleep? Isn’t that just a really quick way to get them to hang up on you? After all, most people are at their most exhausted between nine and ten in the morning.

Or maybe that’s just Tony. Pepper and Morgan seem to be functioning fine, getting dressed upstairs for the Reaping.

They had reacted just as Tony had expected when he had, at long last, woken them up to explain the Quell’s new guidelines. Morgan had been understandably angry; she had cried herself to sleep the night before.

Pepper had reminded him that she wasn’t a child anymore. Tony had told her that _yes, he knew, but she was still his kid._

He hadn’t been able to protect her from the Games. He wanted to do everything he could to protect her now.

Not that there was much for him to do.

Tony’s already dressed and ready when the phone rings, having woken up earlier to make sure Pepper and Morgan would have full reign over the bathroom when they needed it. He’s reading over the requirement bulletin again and again, trying to find any loopholes he possibly can, and jumps when a loud tone rings through the house.

“Can you get that?” Morgan shouts from upstairs.

Tony sighs and stands, making his way over to the phone’s wall station. “Got it, Morg!”

“Thanks!”

He picks it up, holding the receiver to his ear, and says, “Hello?” 

There’s a fuzzy noise on the other end of the line. For a moment, he thinks there’s nobody there; accidental calls do happen, after all.

Then, a man speaks, and his entire body shivers with a chill.

“Anthony.”

Tony recognizes the voice- Bruce Banner, head Gamemaker for the last seven years and absolute maniac. Banner had built the desert arena that had dehydrated and killed a dozen tributes, the swamp arena that had forged Parker into a ruthless murderer.

“How did you get this number?” He tries to disguise the vitriol in his voice with indifference, but it still shines through.

“Capitol phonebook,” Banner says, tone clipped. “We’ve got all of the victors’ house numbers. You and I need to have a talk.”

“I would really prefer not to.”

“You don’t really have a choice, Anthony.”

Upstairs, someone drops something heavy, resulting in a loud thud that resonates through the house. Tony flinches, shakes it off, bites back an insult.

“I’d prefer it if you didn’t call me Anthony,” he snaps. “Stark is fine. Tony if you have to. Not Anthony.”

Anthony is what the president and his father had called him. The name brings up nothing but bad memories.

“Alright. I’m sorry.” And he does actually sound sorry, which surprises Tony more than his actual call. “But we really do need to talk before the Reaping, _Tony._ I won’t be able to contact you in the Capitol without raising suspicion.”

“And what makes you think I’m going to be in the Capitol?”

A labored sigh. “I’ve gotten ahead of myself. You’ll be in the Capitol because, if you’re not reaped, you’re going to volunteer.”

Tony gives a full-body flinch. The idea of volunteering for anybody except for Morgan is absolutely unheard of and, even then, he has no desire to go back into that arena. 

“Presumptuous of you to think I’m going to do as you say.”

“I don’t think,” Banner whispers, and there’s a tangible tinge of fear in his voice. “I have to make this quick. We don’t have much time.”

“Yeah, you’re going to need to explain yourself _very quickly,_ Banner. It’s a miracle I haven’t already hung up on you.” A pause. Tony takes a deep breath. “Now, what the _hell_ are you talking about?”

There’s another moment of silence. Just as he’s getting ready to hang up, Banner audibly groans and speaks again. His words are rushed.

“Your phone lines aren’t tapped right now. I’ve managed to turn them off for a few minutes, and most of our time is already gone. You can’t speak a word of this to anyone you don’t trust, Tony, or we’ll all wind up dead and nothing will ever change.”

The idea of his phone lines being tapped is terrifying, but it’s definitely not unexpected. At this point, Tony would be more concerned if the Capitol trusted him enough to _not_ have any secret surveillance in his house.

“Okay,” he says slowly. “I won’t tell anyone. What’s going on?”

“There’s a plan,” Banner says. “In the Capitol, between me and some of the other citizens. District Escorts, trainers, some of the stylists. This year’s Quarter Quell- Tony, it’s _bad._ The president is getting more and more brazen and some of the people going into the arena are seriously dangerous.”

“Hurry it up, Banner.”

“Yeah. Yeah.” A shuddering breath. “We’re going to get any of the tributes that still have good in their souls out of the arena, and you’re one of them. So far, you’re one of the oldest tributes with a chance of going in and you’re easily the most trustworthy of any of them. I need you to volunteer for the Games and pick out the people we can save.”

_Oh, God._

“You’re sure about me?” Tony asks, brow furrowed. “There are other, younger victors with a better chance of getting into the arena and gaining other peoples’ trust. What about Carter? From Two? Why not her?”

“Two’s reaping has already taken place.” _Shit._ “Parker was reaped, so you understand why we chose you.”

Yeah. He really does. Parker is probably the least trustworthy victor at this point, and the most likely to try and kill everyone else off. Tony’s not surprised that Banner took one look at him and picked Tony instead.

“So what do you need me to do?” He asks, sighing into his palm. “What do I have to do to help?”

Banner’s smile is audible, showing through his voice with a happy twinge. “All you have to do is volunteer for Eight if you aren’t reaped, pick out the tributes worth saving when you get to the Capitol, and bring them into the plan. Once you’re in the arena, I’ll be able to communicate with you through notes or other signals. There’ll be other things you have to do in there to secure our success, but other than that, there’s nothing to worry about.”

“So I just gain their trust? Pick who gets to live or die?”

“It’s what needs to be done.”

It takes him a moment for the full gravity of what Banner’s asking of him to fall onto his shoulders, and when it does, he wants to throw up. They’re asking him to play judge, jury, and executioner. To decide who is going to die in that arena and who is going to be saved.

How can he judge who’s salvageable?

“Sure, Banner. I’ll take care of it”

“Call me Bruce.”

“Alright, Bruce.”

_Later that afternoon, when Tony hears Morgan’s name from the District Eight escort’s lips, he doesn’t hesitate to raise his hand and volunteer. She screams at him from the stage and, later, in the mayor’s house while they’re saying their good-byes. Pepper, although there are tears in her eyes, thanks him for volunteering instead of letting Morgan go._

_He leaves her angry, staring into teary eyes as the doors close. He leaves Pepper sobbing and wishing him the best luck._

_He can only pray that he’ll make it home to apologize and explain himself._


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From this chapter on, we're going to be getting less Tony POV and more HarleyPeter interactions. This isn't because I don't like Tony! It's just because he's in on some Plans that ya'll can't know about and I Literally Can't work around that. Also I really couldn't fit enough HarleyPeter into chapters without clearing some room,,,, so! Enjoy.
> 
> Chapter warnings: obviously angst, as usual, mental health issues (he's starting to get his shit together!!! yay!!!)

_**"strange things did happen here..."** _

_**-** _

The inside of the train is all velvet and glass and metal and things that Harley's never been able to afford, but he can't seem to draw his attention out of his own mind for long enough to take it in. 

The other Four tributes don't seem like they're having the same problem. Cassie and Scott are pressed into a corner of the room, seated so close to each other that Harley wonders if they can breathe, whispering quietly between themselves.

He's sure Scott is already briefing her on what she needs to know.

That's the benefit of going into the games with someone you know, he guesses. Harley knows he won't be afforded that advantage- probably not, at least, as the odds are stacked against him- but if he could just hear them-

"Keener," Cassie calls out, turning to face him with an arched eyebrow. "Join us?"

If he gets close to them, he'll mourn them wh en they die. They're his competition, his competition, his competition.

"Sure," Harley says against his better judgment, pushing himself off of the velvet seat and crossing the train car. His shoes make quiet clunking sounds against the carpet; he's sure he's leaving a trail of sand.

He'd never been able to get all of it out of the soles of his workboots. Sand is caked into every crevice in Four, so what does he care if he's sullying up some of the Capitol's property? They deserve it, he thinks spitefully.

Harley sits across from Scott and Cassie, folds his hands on the table, and stares at his cracked knuckles like he wants to pick them apart. He can feel their eyes on him, knows they're watching him and assessing his threat level.

"Harley, right?" Scott asks. "We know you from around the village."

Harley nods haphazardly. "Yeah. I- uh, I know you guys too. Seen you around."

Cassie nods sharply. Her fingertips drum against the table, tapping out quiet rhythms that Harley can recognize vaguely as Morse Code but can't translate. He's never been able to pay enough attention in school to learn things like languages; they tend to go in one ear and out the other.

He's not like Abby.

"What are you good at, kid?" Scott asks. "Natural talents, learned talents, all that shit. You've gotta pick out what you can do before you get into the Capitol."

Harley gives a noncommital glance toward the window, longing to jump straight out of it, and tilts his head to the left. No matter how hard he thinks, he can't seem to pick anything out about himself. There's nothing special, nothing useful.

"I'm not dangerous," he mutters, picking at the cuticles on one of his fingers. "I won't last a day."

It hurts to say it out loud. Maybe he'd been holding onto the hope that he'd pull some kind of miraculous turnaround and win the Games, get to go home and be with Abby and his mother and live the rest of his life. But, now that he thinks about it, he knows he doesn't have a chance.

He doesn't even know who's going into the arena yet and he already knows he won't make it out.

"Don't think like that." It's obvious that Cassie's trying to be comforting. She's just not very good at it.

"You're good at something. Everyone is. We've seen you around Four helping with the nets and barrels and shit. Think about translating those skills into protecting yourself."

Harley doesn't understand why they're helping him, but he's not about to struggle. This is a chance he probably won't have once they get into the Capitol; he'll be working with a trainer and developing his skills next to people he absolutely can't show weakness around.

He needs to take advantage of this.

"I'm strong," he mutters, poking himself in the upper arm. "I can swim really quickly."

"That'll be good if we're in an arena with water," Cassie says approvingly. "What if it's dry?"

That's a bit harder. Harley's never considered the idea of not being around water- his entire future revolved around going out to sea and dying at sea and providing for people using the sea. Life without the ocean sounds awful.

But there's a big chance of there not being a large body of water in the arena. Cassie's right; he really has to think about this.

"I can weave nets. Stitch 'em up, so I guess I could stitch up cuts 'n stuff like that." Pause. "My mom's a seamstress. I can- I've trained with a fishing spear before, and I can use a knife pretty well."

Scott nods, eyebrows furrowed. His hands creep subconsciously across the table to dance across its center, playing out an invisible battle. He seems to be drawing something out in his mind.

Is this what happens to the victors? Scott seems so paranoid, afraid, wired for battle. Is this what could happen to Harley?

He's not sure he wants to win if this is what his future will be.

"There've been a few Victors who've used spears and nets," Cassie says. It's obvious that, even though they don't train their tributes in Four, she's ready for this. She's more dangerous than Harley had been expecting. "Throwin' 'em over targets and stabbin' em. You could try that."

The idea of trapping somebody with something meant to catch fish and stabbing them when they don't have a chance of escaping makes Harley want to vomit. He actually tastes bile, reaching up to place a thumb against his throat as if it will keep his food down. Thankfully, he doesn't vomit.

Scott shoots him a pitying look. "You could always just use that to catch food if you're not planning on going on the offensive," he murmurs gently. "Survive and wait it out until you don't have a choice."

He likes that a lot better than the alternative. Would prefer to not become some sort of bloodthirsty hunter, stalking and trapping his victims.

That's not someone he wants to be.

Harley's about to ask about whether or not they think there'll be salvageable food in the arena- he's betting on no, but it's always good to check- the sliding door between the train's next compartment and this one slides open and Coulson steps in, still dressed in his sharp suit and looking terribly nervous. He's holding something sleek and black in one hand- a tablet, Harley thinks- and fidgeting obsessively with its screen.

"Coulson," Scott greets, raising a hand. "Good to see you again."

"I wish it were under other circumstances." He gestures at the empty space beside Harley. "Do you mind if I sit? I have something to show you all."

Harley shrugs, waves a hand at the cushion, and scoots over to give him more room. Surprisingly, he doesn't feel any lingering hostility; isn't Coulson just another pawn in this game? Is it really his fault.

Coulson sits, keeping himself at a respectful distance from Harley, and props the tablet up on the table. "I have the results of the reapings," he says quietly. "I'm not supposed to show you all of this yet, but I think this year is different. There's no reason you shouldn't know what you're getting into."

Cassie is silent. Scott is pale. Harley is... Harley is tired.

"It's bad, isn't it?" Scott asks quietly. 

Coulson just nods. He looks regretful, almost. Sad. Much smaller than he'd been on the stage.

"The dangerous ones are in," he says. "There have been violent altercations, fights, breakdowns. Lots of volunteers for the young tributes. Almost- almost none for the victors."

"Can you give us any names?" Cassie asks impatiently. "Skills, districts, anything?"

"I can do better than that." 

Coulson taps a few buttons on the screen and pulls up a video of the Capitol seal. 

"I have a compilation of all of the reapings and a list of names." A breath. "You can't tell anyone I'm showing this. It has to stay quiet- if they find out, they'll target you. You have to act surprised when the results go out."

All three of them nod. 

Harley feels as if he's been dunked in a bucket of cold water. He doesn't know if he's ready to see the people who are going to kill him- or the people he's potentially going to kill. This feels like the point of no return, even though he's well aware of the fact that he's already passed it.

The video starts, and Harley feels his lungs empty themselves of air.

It's in District order, first through twelfth, names and faces piling up on top of each other. One's victor is a hulking man with gray hair and cold, angry eyes named Obadiah Stane- he'd won years before Harley had been born.

"Stane's going to be one of your biggest competitors," Coulson whispers, trying not to speak over the video. "You'd all better hope someone takes care of him for you."

_If he's one of the biggest competitors, who's going to be able to take him out?_

The two tributes for One look dangerous, sure. Jessica Drew and Ben Reilly, trained from birth, both volunteers. Drew looks proud of herself. Reilly's face doesn't portray any emotion, not unlike a stone wall.

Harley watches with a detached nonchalance as the narrator goes over Stane, Drew, and Reilly- their backgrounds, strengths, weaknesses, training scores. He know he should be paying more attention than he is (this is, after all, the difference between his life and death), but he can't seem to tether himself into his own body. He feels like a balloon, floating up, up, and away toward a bright blue sky.

If he was a balloon, he could float his merry way up to the burning sun and be entirely obliterated before he loses himself in these godforsaken games.

If Harley's having trouble focusing, District Two's reaping results pull him out of whatever funk he's managed to work himself into. Coulson's words about someone taking Stane out, about the dangerous ones having been reaped, make sense to him now.

Beside him, Scott swears loudly. Cassie buries her face in his shoulder, takes a deep shuddering breath, and chokes out a sob.

Harley's eyes are glued to the video of Peter Parker standing between Peggy Carter and Kang, eyes watery and tired, face drawn. He watches as the name on the first slip of paper is read out and Peter _collapses_ to his knees with a thud that resounds through the speakers. As he starts crying and barely manages to haul himself to his feet with help from the safe victors.

Peggy Carter whispers something in his ear, he shakes his head. Kang says something, too, on his other side. 

It's viscerally terrifying, the speed with which Peter's face hardens and he _throws_ himself at the nearest Peacekeeper. He plants his open hand on his helmet, right on the face, and pushes his head down with so much force that the stage splinters and leaves him lying in a pile of broken wood. Peter rears his foot back, muscles clenching visibly, and slams the heel of his boot into the Peacekeeper's gut.

He has no mercy. Doesn't seem to care. It's a painful flashback to when Harley had watched him on his killing rampage, taking out every single threat in the arena in order to win.

Harley knows he can't do what Peter does. He's starting to worry that it's going to be done to him.

Scott, Cassie, and Harley watch with wide eyes as Peter stomps over to the reaping bowl and lashes out with his right fist, toppling it off of its pedestal. The bowl shatters on the floor, shards hitting the motionless Peacekeeper and skittering to the other victors' feet. He's dragged off stage then, after blowing a kiss to someone in the crowd- he couldn't have gotten married yet, right?- and throwing his middle finger up in the air with a triumphant grin.

"Strengths and weaknesses," Scott snaps with militaristic anger, eyes burning in the direction of the tablet. It's playing a video of the two younger tributes from Two, but Harley _literally_ couldn't care less about them, because he's seen the face of the person who's going to kill him. Nobody else matters.

Coulson exits out of the video and pulls up a page displaying exactly what Scott had asked for. There's pity shining clear in his eyes, most of it directed toward Harley and Cassie, and he actually goes so far as to place a hand on Harley's shoulder in silent solidarity.

Sure, it's uncomfortable, but he's trying. Harley's starting to think he's not as bad as the other Capitol escorts; maybe he's actually on the plane of tolerable. Possibly. He'll have to see.

That is, if he survives that long.

They run through a list of weaknesses, Scott and Cassie tilting their heads together, but Harley can't seem to remember much of what they say. His head is fuzzy, full of cotton balls and clouds and the spun sugar that his mother had bought him and Abby on special occasions when they'd been young. Everything goes in through one ear and out the other- words like _can't swim_ and _trauma_ and _bad with projectile weaponry_ dancing through his brain before disappearing.

He wants to pass out right here, right now.

Wants this to be over.

Harley finds himself wishing that he hadn't volunteered, wishing that he'd let Abby go. 

He knows, though, deep inside, that these thoughts don't really mean anything. If he had let Abby make it all the way onto that stage, he would've regretted it for the rest of his life. Probably would've ended up hating himself or something.

God, his head is screwed. 

He doesn't have a chance.

He's going up against the most experienced, insane killers of the century, and he _doesn't have a chance._

⇿

The stylists are being particularly cruel this year, Peter thinks tiredly as he's shuffled back and forth between the people who are supposed to make him look moderately well put together. They don't stand a chance- he knows how badly he's done taking care of himself over the past year, and he can't help but wonder if they're even going to bother. 

Could they let him go out in the District Parade looking like he's been abused? Is that something they could do?

They definitely should. 

It would be brilliant.

There's something about the way that Peter's avoided looking in mirrors and hasn't regularly brushed his hair that tells him that, yes, he's been doing it out of spite. Every moment of neglect has been reciprocation for what they did to him during the Seventy-Fourth.

They had pulled him apart. Painted a glaze of makeup over his face, brushed rouge onto his cheeks to make him look happier. Tinted eyeshadow- gold, he remembers- to bring out the bright flecks in his dark eyes.

He had been a golden boy, then. Peter Parker, District Two, named most likely to win the Games. They'd been right, of course, but that doesn't make anything any better.

Now, though Peter's being forced to sit straight up in a cold, hard chair and _stare_ himself in the face. 

Stare at the dark bruises under his eyes. At the red splits in his knuckles and the scratch on his jaw that they're trying in vain to cover up with layer upon layer of concealer and green color corrector (they think he got it breaking the bowl, but they don't know for sure. He doesn't remember hurting himself).

The concealer stings his skin. He would like very much to take it off, and he definitely will before the Parade begins.

He won't let them cover up what he's done to himself. 

That's his scar to bare.

"Peter?"

A blonde woman with large eyes steps into the doorway to his styling room. He pulls the robe further around his chest, staring resentfully at the spot between her eyebrows, and nods stoically.

The rest of his styling team has been nothing but stonefaced and hostile toward him, and he's been nothing but the same toward them. That's why it surprises himself when the woman smiles and reaches a hand out, showing all of her teeth.

"I'm Sharon," She says gently, shaking his hand when he offers it back. "It's very nice to meet you, Peter. I hope we'll be able to get along."

Sharon is warm in the way that the rest of the Capitol is cold. There's a way about her that seems happier than the rest. Kinder.

He can't hold back the gentle smile that makes it way onto his face. Peter doesn't smile very often anymore, hasn't since leaving the arena. The movement is almost foreign, awaking muscles he hasn't used in a while.

Sharon's expression is nothing if not delighted at his reaction. She excitedly shoos him back into the chair and grabs a brush, gently working her fingers through his tangled hair and chattering all the while about things that actually _don't_ make Peter feel like an outsider in his own skin.

This is... this is nice. This is okay.

As on edge as he is, Peter suddenly _isn't_ overwhelmed by an extreme urge to destroy everything in sight and make a run for the woods.

"So," Sharon says, fluffing up his now-untangled curls with a brush before pulling a wet cloth out of a nearby bucket and using it to wipe the concealer off of Peter's chin. "You've gotta be pretty scared, huh? Going in for a second time?"

Peter shrugs lightly, trying to avoid messing up whatever she's doing with his face. He's actually had a Capitol assistant slap him for ruining his own eyeliner, and (even though he knows he can take a hit) he isn't interested in reliving that. Sharon doesn't seem like she'd hit him, though. 

"I won't tell if you are." She winks conspiratorily. "It's totally fine if you want to talk about it, we've got a while before we have to have you ready."

It's not that he's worried about her tattling on him to the Capitol; his little fiasco on Two's stage had surely done enough to make sure everyone knew he was scared. He just- he doesn't know how to go about doing things like opening up. It doesn't really make sense to him.

May had been there for him in the instances that he needed to talk, and those had been few and far in between. She had mostly made sure he'd eaten when he needed to, drunk enough water, avoided hurting himself. 

She hadn't really been able to do anything about the nightmares or his incredible lack of sleep. Hadn't been able to stop him from zoning out for hours upon hours at a time, lost in his memories, unable to break out until they were finished to him.

"I'm not, really." He reaches up, careful and slow and nonthreatening, to brush a hand through his hair. It's soft, curling in gentle ringlets around his face. Looks good, too. Frames his face. "Not in the way that I should be, I guess."

Sharon is clearly thrilled to have gotten him to say something, mouth twitching up at the corners and eyebrows shooting up on her forehead. "How should you be scared, then?"

It takes him a moment to get his words into the right order.

"I guess I should be scared about dying," he says, voice a hollow whisper. "That's what the others are afraid of. That's what the Capitol says we should be afraid of. But I'm not."

"How are you scared, then?"

"I guess-" Peter's breath hitches, and he quiets himself for a moment, breathing deep and feeling as the oxygen surges through his lungs. "I guess I'm afraid of losing the rest of myself this year. If I don't- if I don't die, then I've won _again."_

Sharon nods behind him, hands still on top of his head. She meets his eyes, gentle in the low light of the room, and nods for him to continue.

Despite his better judgment, he does.

"I lost a lot of myself last year. And- and people keep playing off of it like I'm crazy. Like I've lost my mind and- and that's why I did everything I did." He draws in another shuddering breath. "I don't want to lose the rest of myself this time. I think- I think I would rather not make it out than win."

Sharon doesn't speak again, just focuses in on the task at hand with the determination of a woman on death row. Peter doesn't try to strike up a conversation, either. The silence is, if not a bit awkward, comfortable enough.

She smudges his eyes with eyeshadow the color of coal, expertly spreading it around so that the design is perfectly symmetrical before edging it with glimmering gold. She smears a bit of it around his lower lashline, too, but manages to avoid getting any in his eyes.

Peter refuses to look away from his reflection as she works. He keeps his eyes on her from, tracking every one of her movements, hands twitching nervously on the arms of his chair.

Sharon doesn't cover up any of the little nicks and scars in his skin like the others had tried to. She removes every bit of foundation and concealer with the excuse of not hiding what he's been through.

Those scars have become what makes Peter himself. He is his slashes, his cuts, his gashes, stitched up with precision to make a functioning human being. 

He likes himself like this. Bare. Raw.

Peter.

For a makeup artist, Sharon really doesn't use much makeup- just the heavy shadow on his eyes and a bit of contour to bring out the sharp angles of his cheekbones. She sprays his hair down with something shimmering and gold that gives him highlights when the lights hit his hair and slicks it back a bit to draw attention to his face.

He would've preferred to keep his curls, but he'd learned long ago that none of this is optional.

After she's finished his hair and makeup, Sharon reaches into one of the bags she had brought and pulls out a bundle of black clothing.

She leaves him to dress on his own and tells him to come outside when he's ready.

The door closes with a quiet click.

Peter listens to see if Sharon's going to engage the lock. She doesn't, and he's able to breathe a sigh of relief before pulling the robe from his shoulders and casting it aside.

He dresses in silence, listening to the rhythmic sound of his breathing as he pulls a loose-fitting t-shirt over his shoulders and laces up his boots. The year before, he and Gwen had been outfitted in tight-fitting leather- her in a dress and him in a suit. 

It had been impractical and uncomfortable. Peter likes this much more.

A black tactical jacket goes over the t-shirt. The stitching is accented with gold, which he doesn't really love, but Sharon's done such an incredible job with making him not feel like a colorful bird about to be eaten, so he's not going to complain. Other than the shimmering thread, he's dressed entirely in black, just like the uniform from last years' games.

 _There's a lot of symbolism in this,_ he thinks absently, turning this way and that in front of the full-length mirror. 

Peter doesn't look very much like himself in this form.

He doesn't feel very much like himself anymore, though, so what's looking different going to change?

Sharon knocks on the door, preens over him for a few minutes (the eyeshadow looks amazing on you, Peter, and the boots make you look a _little bit taller)_ before leading him through the stylists' hall and toward the area where the tributes' floats are supposed to take off from. His two district partners- a fifteen-year-old girl named Daisy and a sixteen-year-old with odd green eyes and hair bleached white- are waiting for them next to Two's float, uncomfortably staring at him like they expect him to attack.

He nods in greeting, taking in the fact that neither of them are dressed much like him at all- Daisy is in a floor-length dress, and the green-eyed boy is wearing a suit.

Sharon's trying to make him look more threatening. 

_She didn't really need to do much work, did she?_ His inner voice taunts. _She barely did anything._

Peter angrily shoves it back down before offering a hand to Daisy, palm up, fingers splayed out as begninly as possible.

Daisy's eyes widen, and what little color she has in her face seems to seep below the neckline of her dress. He waits patiently, silently, as she slowly reaches out and shakes his hand, fingers wrapping around his palm before darting back to her pockets.

He does the same for the other boy.

"Noh Varr," he says, sweeping his messy hair out of his face. "Nice to meet you."

"You, too," Peter murmurs, taking in the taller boy's stance as wholly as he can. Feet spread a shoulder's width apart, hands held just a little bit away from his hips, eyes darting all over the place- he's well-trained, dangerous, and very much like Peter had been. 

_An equal opponent,_ he thinks before looking Daisy over the same way. She's definitely more afraid than Noh Varr, but the way she holds her shoulders hints at at least a few years of training. She's good, but she's scared of him.

That's something you don't really want to showcase. 

Daisy can't seem to hide her emotions very well, though. Peter wonders how long she'll last.

Across the hallway, the largest pair of sliding glass doors open with a _hiss_. Peter steps away from Daisy and Noh Varr, crossing his hands against his chest, and watches as a crowd of men, women, and petrified teenagers floods into the room before dispersing to their respective floats.

Peter sees Anthony Stark in a deep red suit with his district partners; he'd met him during his victory tour and had gotten a distinct vibe that the man hadn't liked him. He gets the same vibe when they meet eyes and one corner of Stark's lips curls, clearly disdainful.

Whatever, he doesn't really care that much.

There are a few other familiar faces in the crowd- Steve Rogers from Nine, Natasha Romanoff from Three, Obadiah Stane from One. The latter shoots him a cursory glance, draws his finger across his neck, and goes back to menacing the younger tributes. Peter laughs quietly, shakes his head, and decides that if he's going to kill anybody, it's going to be Stane.

That won't make him feel too bad. He doesn't really mind the idea of killing someone if it's him.

A shiver that comes with the feeling of being watched runs down Peter's spine. He furrows his brow- it's not that he's surprised that he's being watched, but this person doesn't seem to be trying to hide it- and shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans before tilting his head to one side. Tries to get a read on where his watcher is.

 _Behind you,_ the voice hisses. _He's behind you._

And so he is. Peter slowly angles his body away from the chariot, adjusting his stance, and turns to face the general direction of whoever 'he' is.

It doesn't take very long for him to single the boy out. He _definitely_ isn't trying to be covert, staring unabashedly at where Peter's standing from his spot at Four's chariot. 

Bright blue eyes accented by dark eyeliner meet Peter's. The boy- blond, tall, and tan- doesn't look away like most people do. Instead, he narrows his eyes and tilts his head to match the angle of Peter's.

He's very pretty, this boy. Peter doesn't use the word 'pretty' to describe people- that's reserved for sunshine and flowers- but there isn't really a better way to describe Four's male tribute. He towers over his female district partner, at least a foot taller than her and several inches taller than Peter, and it's obvious that he's very strong.

But his stance is wrong. One of his feet is turned out instead of in; that won't help him with balancing. He'd be easily knocked over in a fight, and then he'd be dead.

For some reason, Peter doesn't really like the idea of this boy being dead. 

It's a split-second decision, the way he steps around Daisy where she's leaning against the chariot and makes his way through the sparse crowd that separates him from the blond boy. Everyone in his way moves aside without prompting, the Red Sea parting before Moses, Peter moving with unbroken purpose.

His bright eyes widen, and for a moment, Peter wonders if he's going to look away. That would be disappointing.

But he doesn't. 

They hold eye contact until Peter is a respectful two feet away, and _he's_ the one who breaks it, blinking swiftly before offering up as gentle a smile as he possibly can. He holds his hand out, just like he had with Daisy, and waits for the boy to take it and shake before stepping back again.

He has a very firm grip. Large hands, too, with callouses on his fingers and palm. A worker, maybe? A fisherman?

Whatever he is, he doesn't look very scared of Peter. A bit surprised, sure, but that's to be expected. 

"I'm Peter," Peter says (probably unnecessary, but hey). 

The boy blinks, runs a hand through his hair, and _smiles_ _back._ He has a very nice smile, too, baring all of his white teeth. His eyes crinkle at the corners.

"Harley Keener," he replies, "and I know who you are. Uh- from Two."

He has a faint accent- a twinge to his voice, drawing out his 'I's and not fully pronouncing his 'd's. His voice is deep, slow, careful- not at all like Peter's.

"Yeah, that's- that's me," Peter mutters. "And you're Four?"

Harley nods. The blue fabric of his shirt wrinkles. "I am."

"Volunteer?"

"For my sister."

Peter purses his lips and thinks for a moment, wondering if he would've volunteered for a sister if he had one. He probably would've; there's no way he would let someone he loved go into the Games without at least _trying_ to stop them.

He settles for nudging Harley's outturned foot with his own, pushing it until it's parallel to his other. They're in close proximity, surrounded by loud noise from the others and very much in a public area, but he focuses on turning Harley's shoulders and adjusting his stance as much as he can. Harley lets him, although his movements are stiff and careful.

Peter tries to ignore the eyes looking down on him.

"You should turn your foot in more," he says quietly, demonstrating it in his own stance. "And bend your knees. You'll be harder to take down if you ground yourself more. And if your knees are bent, they'll be harder to break."

He turns Harley's shoulders again, hands barely brushing against his skin. "Face forward. Your body is twisted- it makes you easier to knock off balance."

A pause; he steps back to see Harley's eyes fixed firmly on his face and his lips moving slowly, mouthing Peter's instructions to commit them to memory. He gives a cursory nod, bouncing his knees a bit to get used to it.

"You'll be harder to kill this way," Peter whispers so that only Harley can hear.

The pallor in the taller boy's face is gray, reality clearly setting in, but he nods and bounces again. It's endearing, the quick movement, like a child about to jump into the air. Peter smiles again, adjusting the bottom hem of his jacket, and turns to go back to his chariot.

"Thank you," Harley blurts hesitantly. "I- uh, thank you."

"No problem," Peter says. The tightness in his shoulders ebbs away, and he relaxes into a looser facing stance. "See you around, Harley Keener."

And, just like that, he walks away.

⇿

Peter Parker is shorter than Harley thought he would be.

Sure, he's also _way nicer,_ and _quieter-_ Harley had been expecting some sort of abrasive asshole with the vocabulary of a caveman, and this _enigma_ of a boy has such a soft, gentle voice that Harley can barely associate him with the man who drowned the life out of someone on live television.

But the first impression he gets is that Peter is very, very short.

Harley's no small person- in fact, he's quite the opposite. Peter, however, could definitely count as short (he's got to be, what, five foot eight? Five foot nine at most, and Harley is literally six feet four inches).

He's having a hard time translating the image he has from last years' Games to the person leaning against District Two's chariot in what looks like a pair of black skinny jeans.

_Skinny jeans, really? When he's standing over here in pleated slacks and a blue dress shirt like someone on his way to church? Peter gets to wear tactical gear, God, why can't he wear that?_

The stylists definitely don't collaborate on their fashion decisions. He kind of wishes they did.

"What did he want?" Cassie asks from his side, voice low and borderline growling. "Did he threaten you? Why was he touching you?"

Harley blinks, shooting Peter one more cursory glance (Peter turns and winks at him like he has eyes in the back of his head; no, he's not blushing) before turning to shrug at Cassie.

"He just... he introduced himself?" He clears his throat, shifts his feet subconsciously to match what Peter had said. "And fixed my stance?"

Behind Cassie, Scott bites his lip, brow furrowed. "He didn't seem angry? Hostile? The Careers pick out their targets early on, Keener."

He knows. He's spent years watching the opening ceremony, the interviews, training clips- all that bullshit. He's seen the Careers begin the process of singling out their biggest competition, learning their weaknesses, intimidating them to the point where they're too afraid to be difficult to kill.

"I'm not a threat," he says hollowly, fixing his eyes on his feet. "He was just- he was telling me that I'd be harder to kill if I was more stable. Fixed my- my back foot. I dunno."

Scott and Cassie's expressions are exactly the same, drawn and pale, as they turn in tandem to stare at Peter and his two district partners (they haven't exchanged more than a few words since Harley walked in; aren't they supposed to work together? Maybe that's not how the Career Districts do things, but Harley doesn't think he'd be even moderately sane if Cassie and Scott weren't so approachable). 

They watch them for a moment, eyes equally narrow, before they turn back to Harley.

"Be careful," Cassie says quietly as an instructor walks in and tells them to go ahead and get into their chariots. "I don't know what he wants, but it can't be good."

Harley follows Cassie and Scott, standing on their right, and props himself up on the railing to steady his spinning head. He tries to focus in on himself, to convince himself that, in the end, it doesn't matter what Peter wants.

But he can't take his eyes off of him as he lifts his female district partner into Two's chariot and follows her, maintaining a careful distance as he pulls himself up after her, lithe legs moving effortlessly.

Harley waves to the crowd. Smiles. Tries to play to their attention, knowing that in the end, what matters is their approval of him. This is their first impression, their first chance, and he _has_ to get them to fall in love with him. His life depends on it.

In the back of his mind, though, he knows that his attention doesn't stutter from the back of Peter's head as he stares straight ahead and doesn't acknowledge the roaring mob of people in the stands.

He's captivated.

He hates himself for it, but he's _utterly captivated._

And if he flushes and waves a little bit when Peter turns to send a supportive grin and a thumbs up his way?

That's his business.


End file.
